Page 33 of The Briar Bargain
She felt a surprising flash of envy for the lady who had engendered such feelings in the staid Mr. Darcy. Best not to examine it too closely. "Surely,"Elizabeth persisted, "there must be some proper medium between feeling nothing and feeling so much?"
"Must there?" Mr. Darcy's gaze remained fixed upon her face. "Perhaps the risk of such dependence is the price one pays for the possibility of happiness."
Miss Bingley made a sound that might have been a shriek had it not been so quickly repressed. "I should think sensible people would prefer to maintain some dignity in their attachments. I know, sir,” she said placatingly, “that you will take the side of an argument you do not favour only to benefit the debate. I shall leave you to it.” She left them there, Mr. Darcy standing, Elizabeth still in her chair and looking up at him.
“Miss Bingley seems to have mistaken me for you,” Mr. Darcy said with only a hint of amusement. “For I always speak to my own position.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “And you maintain that I do not?”
He chuckled. “I need only appeal to your honesty, Miss Elizabeth.”
Very well then. Shedidoften take the opposing side of an argument. “It helps me to see the issue from more than one viewpoint,” she told him primly.
“Is that your excuse?”
“It is my explanation.”
“Ah.” He nodded at the door through which Miss Bingley had disappeared. “How well did I perform?”
"I fear," Elizabeth replied, her voice barely above a whisper, "that we may have rather abandoned Shakespeare in favour of more personal philosophy."
"Have we?" Mr. Darcy moved closer, close enough that she could catch the scent of bergamot. It reminded her of the white linen she had dreamed of after . . . She glanced away.
"I thought we were discussing the sonnet mostthoroughly," he said.
"Were we indeed?" Elizabeth moved her gaze to the open volume in her lap, though the words seemed to swim before her eyes. "I confess I can no longer recall precisely what point we were debating."
"I believe," Mr. Darcy said with the ghost of a smile, "we were exploring whether it is better to feel deeply and risk appearing foolish, or to maintain dignity at the expense of genuine attachment."
"And what conclusion did we reach?"
"I think, Miss Elizabeth, the question requires further study."
Elizabeth closed the book of sonnets. "Perhaps it does, Mr. Darcy." She paused. "I suppose I should confess that I have not actually read Shakespeare’s Sonnet 98 carefully in some time."
"Have you not?" Mr. Darcy's lips twitched with suppressed amusement, as though he had already surmised as much. "How remarkable. Your critique was extraordinarily perceptive for someone unfamiliar with the text."
"I fear I was simply inventing criticisms that might sound plausible," Elizabeth admitted. "Though I begin to suspect that such criticism may be more art than science if one can improvise it so successfully."
"On the contrary," Mr. Darcy said with evident satisfaction, "I believe you have demonstrated that genuine intelligence can recognise the flaws in even unfamiliar works. Your observations were quite insightful. I suspect Miss Bingley will think twice before challenging you again."
She doubted that, but Elizabeth laughed, feeling better than she had since arriving at Netherfield. "I thank you for the sport, Mr. Darcy."
He walked to her side and held out his hand to help her up. "I hope you will allow me to remedy your unfamiliarity with this particular sonnet. Come, it is warmer by the fire.”
Chapter Eleven
Darcy surveyed the dinner table. The scene before him possessed all the trappings of civilised society: gleaming silver, pristine linen, and the gentle flicker of candlelight casting a warm glow over Bingley's finest china. Yet beneath the pleasant veneer ran an undercurrent of tension.
The first remove arrived in a stately procession: tureens of steaming soup, roasted partridges, early winter greens. Yet as silver dishes were passed and generous portions were heaped upon only seven plates, he could not help but reflect on the families housed in Netherfield’s servants’ quarters. The table’s bounty, though flawlessly arranged, felt almost indecorous under the circumstances.
He glanced over at Miss Elizabeth. A wrinkle had appeared above the bridge of her nose. She was thinking the same, he suspected, and while Miss Bennet’s countenance was more difficult for him to read, he did not believe her thoughts would stray very far from her sister’s.
Bingley, bless him, launched into his customary cheerful discourse about the day's activities, his horse, the progress on the bridge repairs, and his satisfaction with the arrangements for the displaced families. Hisgenuine pleasure in being of service was both touching and slightly exhausting in its relentless optimism.
"The Farrow boy is quite recovered, I am pleased to report," Bingley concluded as he applied himself to the soup with evident appetite.
Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth shared a smile.
